


I See You

by therantygeek



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cussing, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Pining, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therantygeek/pseuds/therantygeek
Summary: She’s beautiful. He tries not to notice that, but it’s hard. She’s dressed practically, much more so than the other women in the town, but it does nothing to disguise the perfect contours of her. Makes his hands itch. Then she smiles at him and it’s all he can do not to glance behind himself like a moron because surely someone else is behind him. Nobody smiles at him like that.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 163





	I See You

The first time he sees her is only a few moments after walking through the gates at Alexandria. A pretty face that for some reason catches his eye in the clusters of people staring the group down as they walk along the main street. Big eyes. More curious than wary.

He doesn’t think on it long. Too much else to worry about.

The second time is just after he lays out the little fucker who went for Glenn. Those big eyes again. While everyone else is panicking, staring at him like he’s some wild animal about to go rabid, her gaze is just interested. Like she’s just watching, waiting for something _else_ to happen. The idiot limps to her, holding his bloody nose, clearly expecting something.

‘You’re the dummy swung at someone better’n you,’ she says to him. ‘Clean up your own damn mess.’

For one irrational moment Daryl feels like he wants to guffaw with laughter. Something about the deadpan delivery and the look on Aiden’s face, combined with the mildly scandalised glances of the townsfolk, hits the spot. Her voice isn’t what he expected, either; dusky Tennessee with a hint of mountain twang. He realises he wants to hear more of it, takes the thought and locks it down, tight.

No time for that. Never time for that.

With all the shit hitting every which fan after that he doesn’t think of her. Why would he? Just another soon-to-be-dead woman in this town of pansy-ass suburbanite fuckers. Except after the quarry, and the fire, and the work to get the walls back up, as he’s checking the car over for a supply run with Rick he realises he’s being watched.

Damn. She’s beautiful. He tries not to notice that, but it’s _hard_. She’s dressed practically, much more so than the other women in the town, but it does nothing to disguise the perfect contours of her. Makes his hands itch. Then she smiles at him and it’s all he can do not to glance behind himself like a moron because surely someone else is behind him. _Nobody_ smiles at him like that.

‘It’s Daryl, right?’

His first instinct is to bolt. His second is to rebuff. Snap, sneer, dismiss. But that smile, focused all on him like the rest of the world just stepped out for a smoke, it has him pinned. Mute. He barely manages a quick nod of his head in assent at his own name, keeping his gaze fixed on her.

‘Denise said you were doing a run today. I just wondered if maybe you took requests?’

He says nothing, expecting her to press on. It takes a moment to realise that she’s actually _asking_ , not assuming, and is waiting for him to acknowledge her question. He manages a vaguely affirmative grunt, baffled. What would a woman like that be asking for? He hopes to god it isn’t something awkward. Bad enough when Michonne went rummaging for tampons and wouldn’t let him stay outside…

‘We’re low on gauze,’ she explains, which makes him blink. Gauze isn’t a _request_. It’s fucking medical stuff. ‘I don’t know what you’ll be able to find but if you could please keep an eye out-‘

‘Yeah.’ He finds his tongue, makes the tone firm. ‘Sure. No problem.’

‘Thank you.’

She’s gone then, a whisper of sunlight vanished on the breeze, and damned if on the run he doesn’t end up suggesting to Rick they try some of the local strip malls. Fills a duffel with all the sealed gauze he can lay his hands on. Gets a raise of the other man’s eyebrows.

‘Food’s the priority.’

‘Infirmary’s running low.’

‘Oh.’

Of course that’s that, Rick doesn’t question it further, and why would he? But they get some stuff – not enough, never enough, but it justifies the trip – and they come back, and suddenly _he_ has to be the one to haul ass down to drop it off. Denise lights up, glad and relieved, as she scuttles to stow the packets.

‘How’d you know?’

That stumps him. He’d assumed the request was passed on.

‘The other woman. The-‘ shit, he has no idea what her name is and damned if he’s going to identify her out loud by how he does in his own head ‘-the one asked me this morning.’

‘Oh! You mean Y/N? With-‘ Denise cracks a wistful little grin ‘-the one with the smile that makes the world stop?’

Well that’s a smack between the eyes but he recalls the new doc’s preferences lie that way.

‘Uh. Green shirt?’ he tries.

‘Yeah, she was in green today.’ Denise is half on autopilot now, all girlish fantasy. ‘She’d look pretty in a potato sack, though.’ Then, blushing, she pushes her glasses up and the mask comes back. ‘Was a nurse. Knows more’n I do in practical terms, probably.’

‘All right.’

So the big eyes have a name. Y/N. Not that it matters. A nurse. A pretty nurse with a pretty smile. Like something out of a stupid daytime soap opera. He forgets about it. Pushes it aside, locks it tight. No time. Never the time.

Days tick over into weeks and still it’s quiet, almost too quiet, only handfuls of walkers and nothing else. Rations are slim so he takes to hunting again, on the regular the way he hasn’t since the prison, because folks are hungry. It’s easier with the bike. Can go out a day or two at a time, load up, come back. Rick scolds him at the prolonged absences but the relief, the gratitude in his tired eyes, gives him away. Judith whimpers when she’s hungry. Carl just goes quiet.

Daryl hates that sound; the soft whimpers of protest at an empty belly, the quiet when the boy sneaks something off his own sparse plate to feed his little sister. It echoes like walker groans, drives him out of the walls and back into the woods to find something to silence it.

The elk is a piece of luck. He tracks it for nearly two days, hunger gnawing at his own guts, but brings it down clean with a bolt through the eye. Takes nearly an hour to get it strapped to the bike; it’s a big bull, heavy-ass bastard for sure, enough to give the whole damn town a solid meal for a change. Maybe that’s why he gets stupid on the way back, takes a corner a little too fast, skids his dumb ass down a gravel road and leaves half his leg behind, or that’s what it feels like.

Of course the drop and his cussing are enough to bring a few walkers but he gets them before they get his prize even if he has to walk the bike most of the rest of the way to the gates. Ford’s on watch, opens up with a whoop and a cheer, then Rick and Glenn are there to move it the rest of the way.

‘God, how far did you slide?’ Carol exclaims in that tone means she’s halfway between hugging him and thumping him for worrying her. ‘You need to get that cleaned out properly.’

‘M’fine,’ he grunts, aching to be very horizontal and very unconscious and very possibly with a swig of something to numb him down.

‘Oh no you don’t. Go see Denise.’ Her arms fold and the steel flickers back into her eyes. ‘Now.’

‘M’ _fine_ ,’ he insists, or maybe pleads. Sometimes it’s hard to tell, with Carol.

‘Want me to carry you?’

‘Go clean up, brother,’ Rick puts in, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘We got this. Last thing anyone needs is you losing a leg. Couldn’t carry it off anywhere as graceful as Hershel did.’

Well, now all he needs is a glare from Michonne for the full set so he cusses them both out and makes a stalking limp down to the infirmary. It seems to be empty. Good. He can clean his own damned leg. Stupid fuss over nothing.

He’s still rattling around trying to find something to scrub the blood off with when he hears the door open, and as he turns he feels his chest constrict unexpectedly. It’s her. Pretty eyes. The nurse. _Y/N_.

‘Good lord,’ she says to him without preamble, those elegant eyebrows going up. ‘That there’s more gravel than leg, looks like. Bad turn?’

‘S’fine,’ he mumbles, avoiding her stare.

‘It most certainly is not. Now, you hop on there and let’s get you cleaned up.’

To his lasting embarrassment he obeys and is seated on the bed before conscious thought registers. Something in her tone seemed to bypass the idea of it being anything in the vicinity of a request. Ducking his head, he tries not to watch as she moves about the room, but it takes real effort and even then he doesn’t quite succeed because she’s supple and graceful as a spring filly and god, he wants to _touch_ her in ways aren’t right to think of at _all_.

‘Let’s have a look-see.’ Her grip is firm, sure, unapologetic, as she examines his leg. ‘Hmm. All right then. Lay down.’

‘It ain’t that bad,’ he mutters in protest. She gives him a look makes him feel about an inch high.

‘Did I damn well stutter?’

Deciding not to argue further he lays down and turns onto his side, exposing the whole of the raw welt up his right leg. Her tongue clucks twice in mild rebuke.

‘Well, those pants’re going to be a write-off. Might be easier to just cut ‘em off you where they are.’

That makes him glance back over his shoulder at her in alarm, but she’s grinning like she just made the funniest joke in the county.

‘I’m just kidding, sugar. No need to panic.’

Unsure how the hell to respond to that he just looks away again, setting his jaw as she goes to work with a pair of tweezers and thankfully no further commentary. After a minute or two he’s even willing to admit that her deft touch is making the process of getting the gravel out of his hide a lot less painful than if he’d just gone at it himself, but still feels his face colour uncomfortably as she works her way northwards to top of his thigh.

‘Be easier if you’re on your stomach. Turn the rest of the way over?’

Gingerly he does so, grimacing as she pulls the damaged skin taut to better find all the shrapnel. She’s got one hand resting in the small of his back, maybe to steady herself or maybe just to remind him not to move, but somehow that entirely mundane contact is burning like a brand through his shirt _and_ his jacket. Bits of him are stirring to life that haven’t had any practical thought turned that way in literal years. He chews at his lip and tries to focus on the sting of the tweezers instead.

Finally, blessedly, she removes her hand and turns away, but when he makes to sit up she puts a hand on his shoulder to arrest the movement.

‘Still got to wash it proper. Just wanted to get the muck out first. Thank god we’ve still got some Neosporin left.’

Almost on autopilot he makes a mental note to look for some of whatever-that-is on the next run. Sounds it might be an antibiotic and he’s seen enough road rash go nasty to know that’s never something to wish for.

Normally cleaning the wound is the most painful part but he finds it somehow a minor consideration next to the gentle firmness of her touch. She knows what she’s doing – there’s certainly no hesitance in her application of the sponge – but the occasional brush of her fingers along the uninjured parts of his exposed skin seems to raise the same burn as the iodine, and he’s having to bite his lip to prevent from outright _wriggling_ before she’s finished smearing the ointment over it after.

‘There we go, soldier, all done.’ She actually gives him a casual little smack on the rump as she turns away and for a moment he thinks he might _die_. ‘Want to wrap it before you change pants, just in case, but I’d let it air dry for a while first. Shouldn’t even scar too bad.’

‘Thanks,’ he manages, getting himself upright and barely resisting the urge to outright sprint for the door.

‘No problem. Woah, hold up a sec?’ A hand on his arm stops him from making off, and he freezes altogether when she reaches up to brush his hair away from his face before tilting his chin up. ‘Thought so. Don’t you go anywhere now, you got a couple nicks there.’

So he sits and sweats and tries to find somewhere else to look when she leans up close enough that he can feel her breath on his cheeks. Her fingers tracing lightly, carefully over his skin as she dabs at the cuts and scrapes like they matter. Like _he_ matters.

‘There you go.’ Her voice makes his gaze snap to hers and for an instant he swears the entire world _does_ stop as she smiles. ‘Wouldn’t want to leave any scars on this pretty face, huh?’

He squints at her, but then she lifts a hand and softly boops his nose and his eyes nearly cross in surprise, which she seems to notice because she gives a little peal of laughter.

‘You’re some kind of adorable, ain’t you? Go on, you’re all done. Scram.’

It’s all he can do not to leave the room at an actual run after that. Nobody’s ever called him adorable. Or pretty, for that matter. She’s kidding around, obviously, but it still feels…wrong. Like he’s wishing she wasn’t kidding. Like he’s wanting the gentleness of her touch to be for some reason other than she’s a nurse, that’s just what she does.

Lock it down. Don’t think on it. No time. Never time.

The following week when it’s time for another run, Glenn mentions the big Kroger off the freeway. Damned if he’s forgotten the name of that stupid ointment she used, and damned again that he feels bad for having her use some of it on his stupid leg. He prays it’ll be Denise who’s in when he sticks his head through the infirmary door, but it isn’t. That’d be like the universe was playing fair.

‘Hiya Daryl,’ she says to him, that sunshine face lighting up like he’s something worth smiling at. ‘How’s your leg doing? Healing up all right?’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’ He makes himself come properly into the room, tries not to shift from foot to foot like some dumbass teenager asking a girl to prom. ‘That stuff you put on it. Need any more? Doing a run.’

‘Oh, that’d be a godsend. Neosporin’s grand for scratches and the like. Here-‘ she goes into the little cupboard and comes back with a scrap torn from a box, holding it out to him ‘-I went to school for this and I still forget how to spell half of it. You be careful out there, mind.’

He takes hold of the label but she won’t let go of it. After a second he realises she’s waiting for him to respond to the warning. For an instant her fingers touch his. It’s like an electric shock.

‘Yeah. Sure.’ It feels brainless but what else can he say? Not like anyone ever plans to _not_ be careful. But the acknowledgement seems to satisfy her and she steps back with another smile.

‘See you later, Daryl.’

The label’s easy to find, right there on the shelf, so after he shoots down the pair of walkers trying to chomp on Glenn he crams a bag full of the stuff. More gauze, too, and two big bottles of iodine.

She exclaims in delight when he brings it to her. Like it’s some big personal favour, rather than just stocking up on meds anyone could need.

‘…some dressings, too? You’re an angel! Good thing you already got wings on that jacket, huh?’

When she pecks him on the cheek he almost falls over, and beats a hasty retreat while muttering something vague about it being no big deal. He’s still blushing when he gets back to the house, shoots Carol a glare when she laughingly asks who painted his face in beets, stomps down to the basement and hurls himself onto his bed to stare up at the ceiling.

Why can’t he lock this down? Not like he hasn’t been around pretty girls before, even since the end of the world. So how come this damned nurse has him practically panting over her? Yes, she’s pretty. Lovely, even, with those big doe eyes, that mane of hair he wants to pull his fingers through, those delicious curves just built for a man to roam his hands over. Peel that shirt down, let the light onto her bare skin, follow it with his mouth.

Shit. _Shit_.

He gets up, flips the lock on the door, goes back to the bed. Unzips, lifts his forearm over his face, takes his cock out into his other hand and just goes at it. Imagines her face. Her lips. Her soft hands. Her smile. That beautiful damned body. Doesn’t take long, and he comes messily into his palm with a grunt that’s as much of frustration as it is of relief. Lies there for a moment, cursing himself, before finding a rag to clean up.

_You’re some kind of adorable, ain’t you?_

Like a woman that fine would look at him twice. He’s trash. He knows it. Always known it. Doesn’t matter what the others say, if Carol clucks her tongue at him putting himself down or Rick puts a hand on his shoulder and calls him brother. Maybe they think they spy something else but he knows what he sees when he passes a mirror. It’s written on the face of half the people in this town who know they’re better than he’ll ever be.

Not hers, though.

That realisation hits him like a smack in the face a few days later as he passes the infirmary. Denise is inside, reading something – brushing up, most likely – and Y/N is just coming out. She sees him walking, gives a little wave and breaks into a smile. When she hurries to catch him up he slows his stride without really thinking about it.

‘Hey there, Daryl. How’s your leg doing?’

‘Better.’ Her pursuit throws him off-balance. Never mind that damned smile, lighting up her face like he’s the cause of it. ‘Thanks.’

‘I didn’t get a chance to properly thank you for that stuff you brought in, you scuttled off so fast, and haven’t seen you properly since.’

‘S’nothing.’

‘It sure as shit ain’t nothing!’ She grins at his mildly taken aback look. ‘Lord knows I’d prefer to go hunting this stuff down myself but Rick’s got all precious about the idea of me being outside the walls, what with Denise being still so nervous about her doctoring-‘

‘Medical folks’re too important to just be bodies on runs,’ he points out, because damned right Rick’s being precious about it and he completely agrees with him. ‘Not like we got a pile of nurses sitting around.’

‘I suppose. Still more’n a mite frustrating, though. If I could get myself into the store room of a CVS or a Walgreens-‘

‘You short?’ He stops then, faces her with a frown. ‘What on?’

‘Just meds – long shelf life stuff – powdered amoxicillin, emuaid, anything dry with acetylsalicylic acid, hell even some vaccine preparations’ll still be good if they’re stored right, for Judith and the other little’uns-‘

‘Make a list.’ He fights to keep his tone even. Why hasn’t this come up before? Has she asked and been ignored by someone? He can’t believe Rick would. Or Glenn. Probably Spencer or one of the other idiots. ‘Write it down, I’ll find it for you.’

‘I don’t want to be a bother-’

‘Ain’t no bother. It’s meds, right?’ Constructing a shrug, he tries not to drop his gaze from hers when she stares at him in evident surprise. ‘Not like you’re asking for candy or some shit. We need that stuff, you just say.’

‘Just with you folks going out risking your necks like you do…I couldn’t bear the thought of something I asked for being the reason someone didn’t come back.’ She rubs at the back of her neck, turned sombre and pensive, and sighs. ‘Silly, I know.’

‘Nah, it ain’t.’ In truth he’s mildly gratified to hear someone inside the walls recognising the danger of being anywhere else. Makes a change. ‘But be worse if someone came back _then_ didn’t make it because you needed something to help ‘em and didn’t speak up on it.’

She cocks her head, and the smile comes back by inches like the sun emerging from behind a cloud.

‘I guess so. Never thought of it like that.’

‘Yeah.’ He’s rendered half mute again, awkward and shifty. ‘Well. Like I said. Make a list.’

‘I will.’ Then she outright beams at him and he feels his face colouring again. ‘Thanks, Daryl. You are a sweetheart, listening to me prattle on.’

‘S’fine,’ he mumbles, averting his eyes again. Which is a mistake, because it means he doesn’t even see the kiss coming and when she plants it on his cheek he steps back so fast he almost loses his footing. She notices that, too, her grin gaining an edge of mischief.

‘Walk careful, Daryl. ‘Specially outside the walls, yeah?’

Then she’s gone, thank god, and he has to stand there like an idiot for nearly half a minute before he remembers what the hell he was originally doing and can get on with it.

That night he jacks off thinking of her again, hating himself for it. Still gets the list, though, a little handful of labels she’s torn off used boxes and packets to save using up paper. Finds everything he can on the next run, and the next, and soon he has a whole stack of old drug labels in his back pocket. Grabs a plastic baggie to keep them in against rain and whatever. Practically memorises the names, always has an eye out.

And every time he drops off his scrounging, whether it’s a stack of antibiotics or just a few scraps of clean gauze, she thanks him like he brought her the moon. Calls him _angel_ or _sweetheart_ or _darlin.’_ Takes his hand in hers and gives it a squeeze. Kisses him on the cheek.Every single time.

Hell, at this point she could ask him to bring her the damned moon – or anything else she could conjure up – and he wouldn’t rest until he got hold of it to give to her.

The touch of her hands and the softness of her lips haunts him. Her face seems to light up when she sees him, even if he’s not carrying anything for the infirmary. That smile that still makes the world stop spinning. He can’t lock it down. Can’t put it aside. Even if there isn’t time. And there isn’t, but somehow that doesn’t seem to matter now.

‘She likes sunflowers,’ Rick says to him, suddenly and entirely out of the blue one day as they’re heading out in the car for a run.

‘Huh?’

‘Y/N. She likes sunflowers.’ Of course the bastard’s all poker-faced about it, gaze neutral and on the road as he swerves them neatly around a stumbling walker. ‘Heard her and Maggie talking about chickens, and feed, and she mentioned she always liked sunflowers.’

Daryl makes what he hopes is a noncommittal noise, shrugs, glances idly out of the window.

‘Just saying,’ Rick adds in that totally deadpan way he has, and Daryl resists even shooting him a glare because he can _feel_ the knowing grin just waiting to pounce.

‘All right.’

‘All right.’

So that’s that, and no more said, but it preys on his mind anyway. Sunflowers. Bright, cheerful. Always turning to face the light. What’s he supposed to do with that information anyway? Stride out into walker-infested Virginia to go flower picking? Fucking Rick and his fucking long ears.

Except then a few days later they’re exploring some truck depot and the bit of colour catches his eye. Golden yellow, flashing as it catches the sun. An old pin badge, left behind by some luckless worker. It’s a tacky little thing really, plastic and garish, but there’s no mistaking the likeness.

He slips it into his pocket, almost fancying he can hear the ghost of the long-dead Merle guffawing in laughter at the notion, and nearly forgets about it until he’s rummaging about for a smoke that evening and pulls it out into the palm of his hand.

Shit. She wasn’t in the infirmary earlier. Now it’s getting dark and he abruptly realises he has no idea where she actually _lives_ in the town. Hell, for all he knows she’s got a husband and a clutch of kids in some house somewhere, and why shouldn’t she? Beautiful woman like that, no way she’s been alone all this time. Surely.

‘Number fifteen. Other side of Denise’s place,’ Carol says, coming out onto the porch. He shoves the stupid pin away again almost guiltily, mortified at having been spotted with it. Of course she just chuckles at him, but while it’s still knowing it’s also more patient. Indulgent, almost.

‘What?’ he snaps, a little more harshly than he means to. As usual she doesn’t seem to notice, or care.

‘You think I haven’t noticed your sudden interest in infirmary supplies? Not to mention the way you make moon-eyes at her whenever you think nobody’s watching.’ Sitting down beside him on the steps, she pats his arm as if in reassurance. ‘Y/N’s a lovely person. She’s not local, you know. Aaron brought her in with three others about six months before he found us.’

He shrugs, pretends it’s of no mind. Three others. There it is. Of course it is.

‘Two little girls and their diabetic mama. She kept them alive since their camp got overrun. You know Julie, over by Aaron and Eric? Her and those girls of hers. They came in together with Y/N. She was Abby’s pediatric nurse. Isn’t that something?’

_Two little girls and their mom._

The knowledge stirs something deep in his chest. Something dangerous. He tries to lock it down. Tries and fails, again. Stares down at his boots, shoulders hunched. Shit. Don’t hope. All hope does is get snuffed out. How many times has he told himself that?

‘Daryl.’

That edge in Carol’s tone makes him look up at her.

‘You’re every bit as good as any man here.’ She gives his arm a squeeze. ‘Better, even. If she can’t see it-‘

‘Ain’t like that,’ he says quickly. Probably too quickly.

‘But you want it to be.’ Her voice turns soft. ‘It’s on your face plain as day when you look at her. Why shouldn’t you have someone?’

He shakes his head, not sure if he’s trying to deny his own stupid internal fantasies or just disagreeing with her.

‘Don’t matter.’

‘Of course it matters.’ Cocking her head, she seems almost sad. ‘You deserve to be happy, you know.’

He snorts.

‘You _do_ ,’ she insists, nudging his side with her elbow. ‘C’mon. What’s the worst that could happen?’ A note of playfulness creeps in. ‘She could turn into a walker and chew your face off, right?’

He squints at her and she gives him a grin, shaking her head.

‘Women don’t do that when you give them presents, Pookie.’

He snorts again. _Loathes_ that stupid nickname, even if he knows she only calls him that to bait him.

‘You want me to get Rick to give you a pep talk?’ she offers with false brightness. ‘He’s got a good one he’s been practicing. Claims it’s for when Carl’s older but I’m not so sure it isn’t more all-purpose-‘

That does it. The notion of being given a _pep talk_ about a woman, and from Rick of all people, would have him gladly walking through fire as an alternative.

‘All right!’ Standing, he fixes her with the angriest scowl he can muster. ‘Fuck’s sake. I’m going. You happy now?’

‘Ecstatic,’ she shoots back, grinning unashamedly. ‘Go get her, tiger.’

He doesn’t even bother responding to that, stalking off into the town and feeling more like the biggest fool in the state every damned step he takes. Screw Carol and her meddling and talking him up, and screw Rick and his speeches, and screw Y/N for being so fucking beautiful and kind and getting him into this mess.

 _Ha! ‘Cept screwing the girl’s exactly what you want to do, ain’t it little brother_?

‘Fuck off,’ he mutters, half to himself and half to the phantom Merle.

Her house is one of the small ones, little more than a cottage really. He’s probably gone past it hundreds of times without realising or paying it any mind. It’s neat, but the lawn’s been dug up. She’s growing veggies, looks like. A hell of a lot better than the stupid begonias and whatever that most of the place is full of. Sensible. Practical.

Shit. Knowing she isn’t native to this dumbass suburban fantasy land, has survived on the road, kept others alive too…it makes him like her more. Makes him _want_ her more. Shit.

He gingerly raps on the door, his other hand buried in his pocket and clutching the stupid pin like a talisman. Is she even in? It’s after dark, she ought to be. Unless she’s in but not in _her_ house. And why shouldn’t she be? She’s a grown-ass woman, can do what she wants. Not like he has any right to-

The thought dies mid-formation when the door opens and it’s like he’s just been dunked in ice water. She’s there, she’s _there_ right in front of him and her hair is in wet ringlets around her shoulders and she’s wearing nothing but a towel tucked around that beautiful body…

‘Daryl!’ She breaks out into that sunny smile, like the world just got better for him being there, and that combined with her state of undress is like someone just clouted him in the mouth. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Uh.’ It takes a long, shameful few seconds for him to form words. ‘You’re – were you-‘

‘Oh!’ She chuckles a little. ‘I was in the shower. Sorry, usually when someone comes knocking this time of night it’s because something’s happened, or there’s an emergency in the infirmary-‘

Now he feels like a rat because he worried her, as well as disturbed her.

‘Shit. Sorry. It ain’t important. I’ll – uh – I’ll go-‘

‘No, no, don’t be silly. I’m always glad to see you, sugar.’ She gestures and he hesitantly permits himself to be ushered inside. ‘Just give me two ticks to go get dressed, okay?’

‘Sure,’ he mumbles, because what the hell else can he say, so she closes the door after him and scurries off into another room. He’s left standing in her little living room, awkward as hell and feeling even more out of place than he usually feels in these damned houses.

It’s tidy. None of the clutter the Alexandrian natives cultivate. A few books, most medical. Brushing up on her own skills, perhaps, to better help Denise. Little indoor herb garden. Veggie scraps in containers, some for compost and others planted to regrow. Salvaged jars, clean and ready to reseal, some already lined up full of everything from pickles to berries. Even collected nuts in a bowl. Thrifty. Careful. Nothing taken for granted. In fact he’s not sure if he’s ever seen her go near the main town pantry. He saw her tucking into her slice of elk at the cookout, though, so she isn’t a pure veggie by choice. Some kind of drive to be self-sufficient, not use the salvage that most of the town still relies on to feed themselves.

Before he can muse on that any further she comes back out and offers him another smile. She’s dressed now but still barefoot, and something about the casual intimacy of seeing her like that makes his chest constrict.

‘Well, I’m for sure glad there’s no emergency! You want a drink? Could brew up some tea. Nettle, that is. Ain’t even that bad once you get used to it.’

‘Nah.’ He tries to think if he’s seen nettles growing inside the walls. Doesn’t like the idea of her venturing outside to find them. ‘Thanks.’

‘Water or anything?’ She grins when he shakes his head. ‘All right, then. So what can I do for you, sweetheart?’

That identifier, given without the permissive context of him bringing her supplies, makes his chest constrict. He swallows it down and tries to refocus, aware that he probably looks like a weirdo and a perv besides with one hand shoved deep into his pants pocket, still clutching at that stupid pin like his life depends on it.

‘You all right, darlin?’ she asks, cocking her head with a trace of worry. ‘Look like something’s eating you alive from the inside out.’

Battling against the urge to blurt that it’s nothing, he shouldn’t have disturbed her, and then to beat a hasty retreat, he opens his mouth-

-and there’s a knock at the door. Quite an urgent one in fact. More like a hammer.

‘Oh, lord. Just a sec, hon.’

She scoots past him and he wants to bang his head on the nearest tabletop when a familiar voice drifts in. Old Alfie from number eighteen, a useless pain in the ass if there ever was one, and fussy as his stupid wife to boot.

‘…saying she just needed a sit down but can’t seem to catch her breath and I’m worried it’s something…’

‘Not to fret, I’ll be right over.’ Suddenly she’s stamping into her boots, and shoots him an apologetic glance as she grabs her coat. ‘I’m so sorry, Daryl, Mindy’s poor old lungs are at it again. Raincheck on – uh –whatever? I’ll catch you later, all right?’

She’s gone in a whirl even as he mumbles something vaguely affirmative, and then the world is dark and quiet again without her presence. He takes a breath, considers remaining until she comes back, dismisses the notion just as quickly. Bad enough he’s lurking in her living room while she goes out to help an old lady…

Taking the pin out of his pocket, he turns it over in his hands and then puts it down on the little table, right next to the bowl of hickory nuts where the bright gold is easy to spot. She’ll find it. That’s what matters.

Flicking the light switch off, he leaves and closes the door carefully behind him before hastening back to the house, shooting Carol a glare where she’s sitting on the porch with a candle and a cup of tea. Her eyebrows go up.

‘She weren’t in,’ he bites off, which is sort of _mostly_ true, and heads downstairs without further comment. Thinks that’ll be that. Nothing else to be said, really.

He goes out hunting the following day, restless and wanting to be outside the walls. Admittedly it’s slim pickings, but his aim feels sloppy and he misses at least two rabbits he ought to have had to rights. Then the groundhog it takes him an hour to track down bolts when he slips on some damp shale, and the stupid thing runs straight into a walker.

Pissed, muddy to his armpits and with only a couple of squirrels to show for it, he knocks the dead geek down and stomps its head. Makes him feel a little better, even if it soaks his boot in gore. The look Sacha gives him when he comes back through the gate tells him just how rank he must look – not to mention smell – but she wisely keeps her trap shut on the matter.

He skins the squirrels on the porch, stripping the morsels off the tiny bones and into a bowl where Carol will turn it into something edible later. There’s blood all over his hands and he’s even more fucked off when he’s done, because he was clumsy, knows better, wasted more of the meat than he should’ve.

‘Daryl?’

For an instant he freezes, but it’s too late. She’s seen him. Can’t avoid it now. Has to be one of the rare few times in his life he actually feels ashamed of the state of himself, filthy and reeking, especially next to her clean white blouse and pristine skin. As if he could somehow contaminate her.

But her smile is still bright and lovely like he’s fresh as a daisy, and for an instant he’s pretty sure his heart outright stops when he sees the sunflower pin on her lapel. She found it. She’s wearing it. Now she’s standing in front of him, has clearly sought him out, and the warmth in her big eyes makes his throat go so dry that he has to swallow a couple of times before he can conjure a response.

‘Hey.’

‘Sorry again about last night,’ she says. ‘Denise was on infirmary shift but you know how some people get.’

‘Ain’t nothing.’ It actually takes him a moment to recall why she’d left. ‘Old lady all right?’

‘She’s absolutely fine. I think Alfie was worse off by the time she was done scolding him for raising such a fuss over all but nothing.’ She cocks her head at him and taps the pin pointedly with one finger. ‘This why you came over? To give me this?’

He feels his cheeks colour, drops his eyes on reflex down to his boots. Then he wishes he hadn’t because they’re still covered in blackened gunk from the walker he stomped outside. It just reminds him once again how absolutely disgusting and low he is, especially compared to her.

‘Oh, _Daryl_.’ The outright affection in her tone makes him look up in bewilderment. Her hands are planted on her hips now and she’s shaking her head. ‘You really got no clue just what a peach you are, do you?’

That utterly stumps him and he can only stare at her, aware of how gormless he looks right now but powerless to do anything about it. She smiles again, this time with the merest hint of shyness.

‘Why don’t you come over this evening? Little earlier, maybe? I got a stew recipe I need a brave man to play guinea pig for, if it ain’t too soon to invoke that raincheck?’

He manages a nod, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights of the biggest damn freeway truck ever. She steps up to him, apparently heedless of the stench that’s surely coming off him in waves, licks her thumb and lifts it towards his face. Before he can quite fathom what she’s about she’s scrubbed a little patch on his left cheek clean of grime, planted a kiss on it and then started to walk away with a last grin back over her shoulder at him.

‘See you later, then.’

Then she’s gone, and all he can do is stand there like his legs forgot how to work. He’s not even sure how long it is before he’s able to really get moving again, and half in a daze he wanders into the back yard to rinse the walker gunk off his boots and the mud off his vest.

It abruptly occurs to him that he needs a shower. Which turns into the most thorough scrubbing of his life, including before the collapse. Nearly breaks a brush clean in half getting all the shit out of his hair. Stares at himself for _far_ too long in the steamed-up mirror, actually wonders if he should find some scissors and trim his bangs, then rolls his eyes and cusses at himself for being a moron.

‘Oh, thank god you washed,’ Carol comments when he slopes downstairs before dinner. Then she pauses and gives him a more appraising look up and down that makes him shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. ‘You’re… _clean_?’

‘Shut up,’ he mutters, not liking that scrutiny one bit, and even less when she chuckles at him.

‘I didn’t even know you could _be_ that pink!’

He cusses at her, which just gets a peal of laughter, and stalks out, half-slamming the door behind him. Rick and Michonne are on the porch steps with Judith, but thank god they don’t seem to mark his hurried departure. Or so he thinks, until Rick calls after him.

‘Good luck!’

Like an idiot he glares back, just in time to catch the pair of them grinning at him. So he cusses at them, too, which just gets more laughter, and by the time he’s approaching the door of Y/N’s little house his mood has taken a definite turn for the worse. Add in the stupid nervous feeling churning in his stomach and he’s just about ready to punch something.

Fuck. Can’t let her see him like this. Or maybe he should. She thinks he’s all sweetness and light, maybe a reality check would be a good idea. Let her know it’s better to keep away. But then an old shit-kicking redneck like him shouldn’t be anywhere near a quality woman like her, least of all giving her presents like he’s worth her thinking on, or spending time around.

In fact he’s more or less made up his mind to abandon the whole thing and slink away, just avoid her or mumble that something came up if she questions him later, when the door opens and there she is.

‘What in the world’re you lurking like that for?’ Her smile is indulgent. ‘Waiting on a brass band to play you in?’

Shit. He can’t exactly retreat after that so he sets his jaw and goes in, only to stop short just inside at the sight of the table set for two people with a single candle on it. It looks…intimate, like something out of some stupid movie. Then he risks looking at her and is mildly relieved to see that she isn’t in a dress or otherwise dolled up or anything like that. Not that it stops her from being the most beautiful damned thing he’s ever seen.

The sunflower pin is still on her lapel.

‘Well, go sit down,’ she says, giving him a little nudge. ‘I’ll dish up.’

So he takes a seat and tries not to stare at her while she bustles around the little kitchen area. Something smells damned good, he has to admit. There’s a vague hint of beef to the smell, which after a moment he realises must be something left over from the elk he brought in; nobody’s seen a head of cattle in years.

The bowl she puts in front of him is full and steaming, making his nostrils flare and his appetite perk up despite the churning nervousness in his guts. Definitely something from the elk, loaded up and bulked out with wild greens and foraged mushrooms. Clearly nothing in it has ever been near a can.

‘Be better with some bread to mop it up,’ she says, giving him a glass of water before parking opposite him with her own plate. ‘Need to go out to find something for the flour, though, not to mention getting a starter going for the yeast. Another time, maybe. Can you believe that dingbat Olivia was going to throw out the neck because she thought it was all bone?’

He pauses with the spoon barely lifted, squints at her.

‘Woman made _such_ a face at the idea of boiling it up,’ she goes on, shaking her head. ‘Not to mention the look on her face when Carol asked about cracking the marrow out. Thank god there’s someone else here knows how to brew up something other than shake and bake.’ A pause. ‘Well, you going to give it a try? I promise I ain’t _that_ bad in the kitchen!’

Resisting the urge to mutter some excuse, he takes a mouthful and rolls it around before swallowing. It’s thick, not watery at all, and somehow the way she’s cooked it up has it all meaty and flavourful rather than tasting like thinly disguised rabbit food. Smacking his lips in appreciation without thinking, he gets back to work with the spoon. He’s rather relieved that she seems to clock the action as approval, giving him a smaller little smile before taking a sip of water and digging in herself.

They eat in surprisingly easy silence, made all the more so by her thankfully not trying to fill out his quiet with bullshit small talk the way Aaron and Eric do. In fact he realises that his mood is noticeably calming, that surge of annoyance from the needling of the others earlier already fading away. Something about the room, the meal, her presence in it, seems to cool his temper like a gentle rain washing away the embers of a once-blazing campfire.

The stew is good to the bottom, and he lifts the bowl to slurp the last drops out of it before quite recognising that he’s doing it, giving himself away for the backward trash that he is. He puts it down in a hurry, cursing himself for blushing, and mumbles an apology. She laughs outright at him but there’s not a single trace of mockery, nothing but fond warmth in that sunny chuckle.

‘Never any need to say sorry to a woman for enjoying her food, Daryl! Came out better’n I thought it would, have to admit. Think I’m going for seconds, you in?’

‘Sure,’ he says, finding his tongue despite that surprising pronouncement. Seconds aren’t a concept he’s got an excess of familiarity with, even before the world ended. ‘Thanks.’

She refills both bowls from the huge pot on the stove and damned if this time she doesn’t tip the fucking thing up to drain it just like he does, flashing him a grin as she dabs the last drips up with one finger.

‘That’s more like it! Plenty left, too, that buck must’ve been seven hundred pounds if he was an ounce. Can’t believe you brought him down on your own, but from what Carol was saying that ain’t exactly unusual.’

His stomach drops unpleasantly. Has Carol been meddling, talking shit up? That’d be just like her when she gets an idea in her head, just like with that girl back at the prison, whatshername from Woodbury who always wore skirts and made eyes at him but baulked at the mere idea of skinning a damned rabbit when he offered to show her.

‘Just hunting,’ he replies with a shrug. ‘That’s all.’

‘Somehow I knew you’d say that,’ she quips with another smile, getting up to take the bowls over to the sink. ‘How’s about some dessert, huh?’

That makes him glance over at her in puzzlement but he can’t really help the upward tug of his lips when she produces a nearly-full bottle of Jack Daniels out of a cupboard. After hearing plenty of Maggie’s lamenting fantasies about chocolate and ice cream, the idea of a woman who sees decent whisky as a treat is refreshing.

‘Where the hell’d you find that?’ he asks as she cracks the stopper and grabs a pair of glasses.

‘While ago when I was still doing runs outside. Been hanging on to it.’ Plopping down on the nearby couch, she motions for him to join her. ‘Waiting for a special occasion, you know?’

That makes him hesitate before sitting down, the dangerous wishful sensation creeping back into his chest.

‘Don’t see how this counts,’ he makes himself say.

‘Are you kidding?’ She winks at him. ‘Got you in here talking about something other than infirmary supplies and in near-on full sentences. Don’t get more special than that, does it?’

The snort of amusement escapes before he can censor it, so he thinks _fuck it_ and sits down, accepting the tumbler she hands him and taking a sip. It’s smooth and rich with just enough of a kick to make it burn going down.

‘Ain’t had shit this good in a while,’ he admits, holding the glass up to watch the candlelight dance through the amber liquid before looking over at her again. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ She moves, shifting so she’s leaning on the back of the couch and half on her side, facing him with her chin propped in one hand as the other gestures to the pin on her shirt. ‘You really came all the way over here last night to give me this?’

He shrugs, lowering the glass to his lap and fixing his gaze on it.

‘Just saw it. Rick mentioned he heard you talking to Maggie, saying you liked them flowers-‘

‘That man’s nose is so long, wonder it don’t fall off his face.’ But she giggles – a delightfully bubbly sound – and shakes her head. ‘And for the record we was talking about chicken feed, not flowers!’

‘Yeah. Well.’ Daryl rummages for words, disgusted with his own ineptitude. ‘Other people are always asking. You know, for stuff, on runs. Things, or food, or whatever. But not you.’ He fiddles with the glass for a moment, trying to articulate the thought as it’s still forming. ‘Hell, just getting you to ask for _meds_ , stuff people _need_ …’

She sighs.

‘Not much use for trinkets these days. And like I said, couldn’t bear the thought of being the reason someone didn’t come back at all, god forbid for something stupid. Specially you.’

That makes him look up at her in sudden apprehension, and her smile turns gentle.

‘I know half the town don’t really look at you, Daryl,’ she says quietly. ‘They either don’t notice, or they pretend they don’t. But I see you. Always there, always doing what’s right and what’s needful, looking out for people. Caring, quiet like, not asking for even a word back. Right from that very first day you walked in through the gates with a damned possum in your hand. I _see_ you.’

He’s powerless to do anything but stare at her. The look on her face, the outright tenderness written in her eyes, is enough to take his breath clean away.

Nobody’s ever looked at him like that before.

Then she turns back to the bottle and tops off both glasses and the spell breaks, thank god. Her tone turns brisk, casual, if no less warm.

‘At any rate, other than you being a dab hand with a crossbow, I realise I don’t know nothing about you really. Where you from, down Atlanta way like Rick and Carol?’

That throws him a little but he tries to regroup.

‘Yeah. More or less.’

She rolls her eyes, but it’s playful rather than genuinely annoyed.

‘Never prone to fits of verbosity, huh? Although from your accent I'd say you're a mountain boy. Guessing Knoxville, maybe Chattanooga sort of area? Not too far from the Smokies, any rate.’

That’s pretty on the nose and he has to admit it intrigues him.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘You ain’t denying it.’

‘Ain’t agreeing, neither.’

That gets a little laugh.

'Had a boyfriend from up that way once. Hayesville. Similar short stop on the vowels.'

‘Huh.’ He takes a moment to wrestle down the total dumbass spike of jealousy that suddenly intrudes. ‘Well, you ain’t far off. Pemberton County.’

‘Well, that’s a start, then.’ She seems pleased at the confirmation, and that with the few mouthfuls of liquid courage prompts his own curiosity.

‘What about you? Got to be further west, right?’ He indicates the bottle. ‘Tennessee?’

‘Barely. Grew up in Memphis. Was working all the way over in Charlotte when the outbreak happened.’

‘Long way from home.’ He takes another sip, feels it spread a tiny glow down his throat to his belly. ‘You were a kids’ nurse, right?’

‘Yup. Was training as an NP – a nurse practitioner, kind of halfway house between a nurse’n a full-on doctor – doing time in the ER and what-have-you, then the world ended. Rude.’ She takes a long swig, sighs. ‘When I think what else I could’ve done with that course registration fee…’

That dry observation makes him chuckle, again before he can censor it. Money! Nobody’s even mentioned it in years at this point. She reaches over and prods him lightly in the arm with one finger.

‘What about you, mountain boy? Park Ranger? Firefighter? Rancher?’

He looks away again, the familiar shame resurfacing. All fine and fun having idiots at the prison making a game of trying to guess his old life, but not her. A nurse. Spent her life saving people, caring for people, doing good. Doing _something_ , at least.

‘Nah,’ he forces himself to reply. ‘Didn’t really do nothing. Just…blew around.’

‘Drifter, huh?’ She just nods, seeming entirely unbothered by the information. ‘Any family to speak of?’

‘Older brother. Spent most of my time following him around, bailing him out now and then-‘ shit, the whisky’s definitely having an effect, and he clamps his mouth shut before anything else spills over. Last thing he needs is to be bending her ear about fucking Merle.

‘Ugh. My big brother was the same.’

He glances at her in surprise. For some reason in his mind he’d pegged her as a solo act.

‘He claimed he wanted to be a cop but god, he was thick as shit.’ A rueful smile. ‘Could barely spell his own name on a good day, and since his name was Sam that’s really saying something. Ended up joining the army, shipped out and got himself killed saving one of his buddies in some desert somewhere. At least he missed the end of the world, I guess.’

‘Sorry,’ he says, because that’s what you say, and then the whisky gets his tongue again. ‘Merle bought it after, whole load of shit few years back. Had to put him down when I found him.’

‘Son of a bitch, that’s rough.’ She puts a hand on his arm, gives a little squeeze. ‘Sorry.’

‘Not much to be sorry over.’ He snorts. ‘Stupid shit weren’t any better at being dead than he was being alive. At least he cussed a bit less.’

They both chortle at that, gallows humour that it is, and then she leans over to top off both glasses again. He gives her a look of mild confusion and gets a grin with a hint of wickedness to it that makes his stomach flip-flop.

‘Come on, getting whole speeches out of you now, so clearly I got to keep plying, ain’t I?’

‘Not planning on winding up under the table,’ he says, but does take another small sip. ‘Hope you ain’t neither.’

‘Damn well not.’ She pats his arm and smiles again, reassuring and kind. ‘You want to talk about your brother?’

He takes another sip, considers the question and then looks at her.

‘Sure. Want to talk about yours?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’

So he tells her stupid stories about Merle and she tells him some of the dumbfuck things Sam got into, and at some point he notices that neither of them has touched the booze in a while but they’re both chortling and he can’t remember the last time he spent time with someone like this, just sitting and shooting the breeze like the world’s normal and dead people aren’t walking around. In fact he can’t think of _any_ time it’s felt this comfortable, booze or not, to just sit and talk.

The realisation is like a smack between the eyes and he falls silent, staring at her face with the candlelight flickering over it, setting miniature fireworks in her eyes. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so beautiful.

Her laugh fades when she sees that he’s quiet again, but the smile lingers.

When her hand comes up to rest on his cheek, tucking some stray hair behind his ears, his throat goes dry. Then she runs her thumb lightly down, around his chin and over his mouth, and he knows he’s lost.

‘I _see_ you, Daryl,’ she says, whisper-soft. ‘And I think – I hope – you see me, too...’

It’s never quiet clear who moves first, who fires the first shot, but then he’s kissing her and she’s kissing him, and she’s all warmth and light, something so pure and good he feels like he could sink into the taste of her forever. They part with a gasp, lean back in. Her hands come up to cup his face, holding him to her like she can’t bear to let him go. Like he’s something precious. She draws back a little, eyes wide and deep, boring into his with an intensity that knocks the breath from his lungs.

When she nips at his lower lip before kissing him again it’s like something snaps and he reaches for her, pulls her into his arms where he has to admit he’s wanted her for so long. She makes a pleased little noise, presses up close, and for once he shuts his stupid head down and just _enjoys_ , letting the world fall away until there’s nothing but the couch and the candle and _her._

‘Stay,’ she murmurs against his mouth, and he isn’t sure if it’s minutes or hours that have passed. She takes his hand, resting gingerly on her waistline, and slides it down onto her thigh. ‘Please.’

‘You sure-‘ he begins, but she cuts him off with another kiss.

‘Please,’ she says again. It comes out breathy, pleading, and surely he must be dreaming because no woman has ever wanted _him_ this much. Then his gaze slips to the bottle on the table, still two thirds full but then tolerance is going to be shot to shit, and he panics.

‘Nah. You’re smashed. Not gonna-‘

‘I ain’t _drunk_ , you know,’ she says, and damned if that doesn’t come out sounding stone cold sober. Grabbing his chin, she makes him look at her. ‘Daryl, I want this. I want _you_. All of you.’

‘You oughta have someone better,’ he protests.

‘You thick-headed angel of a man, there _ain’t_ no one better’n you!’

Then she kisses him again and stands, tugging him after her, and he’s still reeling from that declaration but follows her anyway, utterly spellbound. She brings the candle along, puts it down on the nightstand, starts to unbutton his shirt, and all he can do is stand there gawking at her like the stupid hick he is. Feels like he’s more drunk off her than the damned whisky, staring dumbly at her until she actually lifts his hands and puts them onto herself, stepping up close to kiss him again. When she turns to nose up behind his ear he gives in, starts pawing at her clothes. Needs her skin on his, her body under his, pushes her down onto the bed and just kisses and kisses her until she’s arching her back and keening for him.

He reaches clumsily down to part her beautiful legs and lightning shoots down his spine when he feels how wet she is beneath his fingers. Shit, she’s a miracle, a revelation, and when he starts to slide inside her it’s like fucking paradise, a velvet vice around his cock, and he could pop any second like a goddamned teenager just from the feel of her. She’s not shy getting what she wants, either, locking her ankles around his back and leaving delicious claw marks down his back and all over his ass, and as they move together he swears time just stops. There’s nothing but her, the heat of her kisses and the tightness of her cunt, and it’s all he can do not to go off like a rocket when she cries out and clenches around him, moaning his name and lacing her hands up through his hair to hold him to her.

The snap of his hips loses its rhythm and he explodes inside her with a grunt, leaving both of them a gasping and sweaty mess, limbs tangled up and bedsheets thrown any which way. Reluctantly he slides out with a shudder and starts to lever himself off, expecting her to let him go, but instead she catches his arm and tugs him back to her, pulling the blankets up over them both.

‘You ain’t going anywhere, mister,’ she murmurs into his neck, tucking herself up against him. In the hazy afterglow he doesn’t even think to question it, letting his head hit the pillow as she curls into his chest and the most perfect lethargy carries him into unconsciousness.

The dawn light peeking through the window shades wakes him, suddenly and all at once as it usually does. For an instant he’s confused, noting the change of angle and the wider window than the little slit in the basement, but then the sleeping weight beside him shifts a little with a sigh and the awareness hits him.

Shit. _Shit_. She was tipsy, even if she claimed she wasn’t, and he took advantage, and now she’s sprawled out next to him all naked and beautiful and still very, very asleep. One of her arms is slung across his chest, almost possessive, and the notion makes him chew at his bottom lip anxiously. He can remember it all. Every gasp, every touch, every push and pull and slide of skin on skin. Coming undone, filling her up, her drowsy proclamation to keep him in her bed.

He’s so fucked. In fact he’s _beyond_ fucked, when she wakes up and realises what she’s done, who she’s done it with, the inevitable regret and disgust that will mar her lovely face. No more smiles for him in the cold light of day with last night’s candle burnt out and sobriety returned.

She stirs and he panics. Might be better to get out now, save them both the awkwardness. He’s not sure he can bear it, not now. Still too raw, her kisses lingering on his lips and his handprints on her body.

‘Morning, sweetheart,’ she says suddenly, and with a sinking feeling he realises she’s already awake and looking at him. Except there’s no regret, no dawning horror. Nothing but warmth and fondness and a smile brighter than the morning sunshine.

He gulps, still hardly daring to hope, and makes a noncommittal sort of noise of acknowledgement. Unphased, she nestles closer, trailing her hand down his chest and beginning to stroke idle circles around his stomach with her fingertips. The contact is tantalising, makes him remember the fiercer touches from the night before.

‘Sleep well?’ she asks him.

‘Yeah,’ he manages. ‘Uh. Did you?’

‘Mmm. Very. You’re a first class hot water bottle.’ She lays back down but this time her head is on his shoulder. Her other hand curls up to tousle through his hair and she’s _cuddling_ him, which is beyond surreal. The few women who’ve tolerated his attentions in the past have never acted like this. Like his company is worth it just for its own sake. Like he’s in some way _worth_ keeping around.

He has no idea how to respond to it. Shame and guilt rears back up in its usual potent cocktail.

‘You want me to go?’ he asks, both fearful of and resigned to the inevitable answer.

‘Don’t you dare.’ She puts her face up to his and kisses him lingeringly on the lips while he tries to process the notion of somehow still being welcome in her presence. In her bed.

‘Sun’s up,’ he tries. ‘Don’t you got to-‘

‘Daryl Dixon, are you trying to throw me out of my own damned bed?’ There’s a snap of teasing in her tone but he still stumbles over his own words in an effort to backtrack.

‘No – course not – I just-‘

‘It’s barely six and no reason not to take it easy.’ Burrowing back against him, she gives a little sigh. ‘Relax, sugar. I ain’t letting you hurry anywhere right now.’

‘You want me to stay?’ That comes out probably more outright alarmed than it ought, but she just gives a little giggle at his disbelieving tone. Reaches over to take his hand and tugs it over until he gingerly wraps both arms around her, wondering if he’s actually still asleep, still dreaming. Or maybe he died and didn’t realise. This could well be heaven, not that a guy like him has any right to expect any such thing alive _or_ dead…

‘Long as you can stand me stuck on you,’ she says. ‘You’re fine snug to lay on.’

That stumps him anew but he decides not to argue further in case she changes her mind. Her skin is silk-soft but not too smooth, clear evidence of old nicks and scrapes and the occasional scar. She’s taken knocks, knows how rough the world is, lived on the road, not been kept in this town the whole time like a pampered house cat. The edge to her makes her even more perfect in his eyes.

How the ever-living fuck did he get stupid lucky enough to end up with a woman like this even noticing him, let alone taking him in willing and now curled up in his arms?

‘I can hear your brain whirring, darlin,’ she murmurs with such obvious affection that he feels his throat close up. ‘Still waiting for the other shoe to drop, huh?’

He doesn’t reply, chewing at his lip. What can he possibly say?

‘Well, I’ll say this now, and as many times as you need to hear for it to sink in.’ Bracing herself on one elbow, she leans up to look him in the eye. ‘It ain’t gonna. I _want_ you here. Long as you’ll stay. If that’s this morning and nothing else, well, I’ll take it. If that’s the next month, or year, or decade, or whatever, I’ll take all that too, and if you’ll let me call you my man I swear to whatever god might still be out there I’ll make it my job to see you never regret it.’ A palm settles on his cheek. ‘We clear?’

After a moment he manages to swallow again.

‘Uh. Yeah.’

‘All right then.’ Sitting up, she bends to kiss him. ‘Help yourself to the shower, if you want. I’ll make us some breakfast.’

So he lays there and watches her, dumbstruck, as she rises and slings clothes on carelessly, flashing him another sweet smile before going downstairs. After a few minutes of indecision to the backdrop of unmistakable kitchen noises he gets up, dresses in a hurried rush, gets his boots back on and warily follows her.

Breakfast is foraged and grown, too. No sign of a can or packet in the kitchen. Roasted sweet potato slices, fried mushrooms and nettle tea. The stew pot from the evening is covered but must be still mostly full; she’s got jars out, presumably to distribute the stuff to the rest out to the town.

She ought to have more meat, he thinks. She’s thrifty as Carol and close to as good a cook, and if that’s is what she can do with a scrag-end of elk neck…he should bring her some rabbits. A bird or two, maybe, or a wild pig if he can find one. It’s a strange, primitive impulse but suddenly he _wants_ to hunt for her. Keep her fed, safe, warm, happy as she can possibly be.

Is that how Rick felt about Lori? How Glenn feels about Maggie? The notion startles him. Scares him, even. But it’s also strangely warming to think of. _My man_. He never thought of anyone saying that to him, let alone a beautiful, caring woman who seems to think he’s some kind of treasure, some precious thing worth cherishing.

‘Any plans for today?’ she asks him brightly, collecting his now-empty plate and bustling to clean it before he can protest or stop her. ‘I’ll head to the infirmary in a bit, give Denise a break for some reading time.’

‘Going outside,’ he replies, deciding even as he says it, and stands up. ‘See what I can find. Hunt, I mean.’

‘All right.’ Stepping close, she leans up to kiss him, slow and tender. ‘Be sure and mind yourself out there. Expect to see you back hale and whole before dark.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Daringly, he catches her hand and kisses her back, then decides he’d better get his ass moving before the promising flash in her eyes takes the day totally off course.

‘Daryl.’ Her voice as he reaches the door checks him, and he glances back.

‘Yeah?’

‘You walk careful now, hear me?’ She smiles at him, worried and loving and pure sunshine. ‘I see you.’

‘I know.’ He feels himself smile back, wonders at it, feels the warmth of her like she’s inside his chest. ‘I see you, too.’


End file.
